In My Veins
by MITclassof09
Summary: When When Felicity asks him for help unzipping her dress, the last thing he expects is for her to step out of it in front of him, right in the middle of her living room. Things get out of hand one night when Oliver and Felicity are both exposed to the willpower drug, and lots of miscommunication between the two makes things interesting. Please leave feedback/reviews!
1. Chapter 1

The first time he suspects that the needle punctured his suit, it's after he's hit Roy.

He considers throwing a second punch when Diggle steps in front of him, laying both palms flat on his chest, pushing him back. "Okay, Oliver, take a breath."

"What was she even doing there?" Oliver yells. "Simple instructions Roy, she doesn't go out on the field unless I say so."

"Unless you say so?" Felicity asks, her voice an octave higher than usual. She quirks an eyebrow questioningly at him while holding an ice pack out to Roy. "If you want to hit anyone, you should be hitting me. It was my decision, and when you get off your high horse, you might want to try a different approach to this, like, I don't know, '_hey Roy and Felicity, thanks for saving my life_'."

Oliver ignores her and glares at his sidekick. The younger man sighs, wincing as the cold surface of the ice pack meets his swollen jaw. "Have you tried saying no to her? She threatened to hack my bank account. What was I supposed to do?"

Felicity pushes out her lower lip, and nods proudly. "It's true." She pretends to buff her nails. "I was _very_ threatening. Besides, you act like there's someone else on this team who could have figured out the code to that keypad. Newsflash, there isn't." She sits down on her chair and swivels around. "No offense guys," she says in a singsong. "I just meant that I'm the smartest one here." She cups her hands over her mouth and grimaces. "Ugh, I hate this drug."

Oliver takes a deep breath, pulling the zipper of his suit midway down his chest. He ignores the hot flash he's experiencing as he yanks the leather sleeve off one shoulder, twisting his neck to check the puncture mark that he knows is there.

"Here, let me see," Sara offers, approaching with a blue tourniquet and syringe. She places her foot on the bottom bar of a nearby stool and kicks it towards Oliver. "Sit down."

"Felicity first." He throws her a look that tells her it's non-negotiable.

Felicity chuckles nervously. "Me?" she squeals, covering the arm where she was hit. "I'm _fine_. Why don't we just establish I have no willpower, and then it becomes completely unnecessary to check whether I have the drug in my system. I mean, have you see me eat a pint of ice cream?" She points a thumb to her chest. "No. Will. Power. A blood test is completely unne—ughhh," she groans as Sara grabs her arm and wraps the tourniquet around it.

"Distract her," Sara instructs Oliver, who appears by Felicity's side. He reaches out and intertwines his fingers with hers, his other hand landing gently on her left cheek, turning her head towards him. He tells himself it must be the drug coursing through his system, because he leans in until their noses are almost touching.

"Just focus on me," he whispers, his thumb tracing her jawline. She gazes into his eyes, and Oliver gets lost in this moment—his chest swells with the knowledge that, for a change, he's giving her the comfort she needs, something she provides in spades for him. He barely feels the rubber strip that's tied around his arm, or the needle that Sara jabs in to draw his blood after she finishes with Felicity.

"Okay, I'll run the blood and let you know what I find," she informs them. "You guys should head home. I'll call when I know something."

Oliver's grip on Felicity's hand tightens, and he jerks his head towards the foundry door. "Come on," he says with a smile. "I'll take you home."

* * *

When Felicity asks him for help unzipping her dress, the last thing he expects is for her to step out of it in front of him, right in the middle of her living room. His eyes fall to the dark, blue fabric lying in a heap on the floor, trying to avoid looking at her, until he remembers he has no willpower. If there is any time when he can get away with ogling her the way he's always wanted to, it's now, and he figures he might as well take advantage. A wave of relief washes over him as he lifts his gaze to her nearly naked form, clothed only in black, lace underwear, because it's a weight off his shoulders to go with the flow instead of fighting against it. He tracks her as she makes her way to her kitchen, throwing the refrigerator door open.

"Is it just me or is it really hot in here?" she asks, grabbing a dishtowel and wiping her neck. "I'm really sweaty."

Hot is an understatement, he thinks to himself, as he closes the distance between them. "It's not cold," he admits, stopping right in front of her, leaning himself against the bar island. Felicity whips around, handing him a bottle of water. "This might help," she suggests, opening a second bottle and chugging the water noisily. She tosses the empty bottle towards the trashcan, laughing when it misses by nearly two feet. "Ooops." She looks up at him and shrugs. "I can't aim as well as you," she says with an exaggerated pout, eyes peering up at him innocently.

She's beautiful and perfect and everything that's right in his life.

He reaches out and places a hand on her cheek, exhaling when she leans into his touch. "We all have our talents," he murmurs, bridging the final distance between their bodies with one step. Pressing himself up against her, he wraps one arm around her waist to keep her exactly where he wants her, not that she seems determined to get away. She responds with a finger coming up to trace the v-neck collar of his shirt, and then he feels her skin tracing his collarbone. He weaves his fingers into hers, lifting her hand up to his lips, brushing gentle kisses on each fingertip. She watches him silently, curiously.

She smiles at him as she pulls her hand away to rub the stubble on his cheek, and Oliver knows he's done for. He doesn't stop to think about how powerful this drug is, or that maybe he's stronger than what's taking control of his system at this moment. He entertains only one thought as his tongue gains entry into her mouth, as her hands make quick work of the buttons on his jeans and he hurriedly undoes the clasp of her bra: he loves her, and tonight, he gets to show her just how much.

* * *

He doesn't bother to look at the caller ID on his phone when he answers it the next morning. "Mmmm-ello?"

"Ollie, hey did I wake you?"

He squints as he sits up, clearing his throat. "Hey, Sara. Nope. It's fine. I'm up."

"So, good news. Whatever you got hit with wasn't the willpower drug."

Oliver swallows, shifting in place. "What do you mean? I got hit with the dart. Felicity did too."

"Well, they must have accidentally put in the placebo, or something…because there was nothing in your system."

He flashes back to the night before, explicit images that have him hard all over again. "Great, so there's nothing in our system," he acknowledges, taking a deep breath.

He looks over at Felicity, hair tousled and tangled, still sleeping next to him. He knows as he watches the rise and fall of her chest that he has no regrets, and he smiles as he considers that _this is it_—the two of them together. There's no excuse this time. No reason to backtrack. They can finally move forward. "That's fantastic," he adds with a laugh. "Felicity will be thrilled."

"Well, I said there was nothing in your system," Sara clarifies. "I was just about to call Felicity after I get off the phone with you. She definitely had the drug in her system. A lot of it. She seem okay when you took her home last night?"

Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes. "Yeah. Fine," he lies as he turns his attention to the blonde stirring next to him. "Listen, I'll tell Felicity. Thanks Sara. I gotta go."

Felicity rolls over, rubbing her eyes. "Oliver?" she asks when he comes into focus. "What are you doing here?"

It's a vice-grip on his heart, that question.

"Felicity," he says, as she looks up at him. "We need to talk about last night."


	2. Chapter 2

_"Ohmygod_._ I'm_ naked. _You're _naked. _We're_ naked. In my bed. Together!" Felicity groans, pulling her comforter over her head and sinking lower underneath it. A second later, she pops her head back up, hands flying over her eyes. "Oohhh…You're…still naked. Under there." Her finger points to the bed. "So I'm just going to…keep my eyes closed. You should…" Her voice trails off as she waves him away with one hand, the other holding the sheet tightly against her naked chest.

Oliver swings his legs over the side of her bed and scans the room for his boxers, noting the floor is clean. He cringes as he remembers they never quite made it to her bedroom (at least not until the second time), so her clothes are probably still lying in a crumpled heap in her living room, while his must be on the kitchen floor. "I'll wait for you outside," he tells her, before sprinting out of the room.

He thinks it's best to collect her bra and panties off the tops of the coffeemaker and toaster, respectively, seeing as he's never seen her cheeks blush that deep a shade of red before. He sits awkwardly on her sofa, not knowing quite what to do with his hands, when Felicity emerges in jeans and a long-sleeved, turtleneck sweater, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.

"Um…it's 80 degrees out," he points out, eyebrows furrowed, watching her move towards the kitchen.

"I'm cold," she says simply, opening a canister of coffee and replacing the filter on her machine. "Coffee?"

He knows why she's consciously chosen an outfit that covers almost every inch of her skin, but he doesn't say anything, just nods numbly as it becomes painfully obvious that she's avoiding looking in his general direction.

It's the complete opposite of the night before, when her gaze never left his as he thrust into her. He squeezes his eyes shut at the memory of his lips on hers, adding it to the list of things he doesn't deserve but wants so desperately anyway.

"Yes, please." He clears his throat and drapes his arm over the sofa's back cushions, tapping his fingers against the smooth leather. He's never been around for the awkward morning after, seeing as he's always just left with a note promising to call (which he's never actually done). But this is Felicity, and that's not an option with her. Plus, even if it was, he knows he doesn't want it to be.

He doesn't want a way out. Not this time, and not with her.

He leans forward, leaning his arms against his thighs, clasping his hands together. "Felicity, about last night…"

"We should not be having this conversation without coffee," she interrupts. "Or at all. I mean…we both don't remember, right." It's not a question as much as it is a plea. She doesn't look away when he turns towards her, meeting her eyes. "It's the drug," she continues. "It has to be."

Oliver sighs when he sees her focus her attention back to making coffee, pouring water into the machine before switching it on. "So we can just pretend it never happened," she says with a shrug, pressing her lips together and tilting her head at him. She folds her arms, and looks down at her feet before mumbling, "It wouldn't be the first time."

He opens his mouth to respond, knowing exactly what he wants to say, but he knows she's not ready to hear it. The drip of the coffeemaker echoes in the silence, and Felicity runs her hands up and down her arms before spinning around to watch the drops of brown liquid fill the glass carafe.

Oliver scrubs his hand over his mouth. "If that's what you want," he agrees, feeling defeated.

"It is," she replies, not looking back at him.

* * *

"Sara! Sara!" Oliver calls out, tapping his friend on the shoulder when he catches up with her. There are definite advantages to knowing which trails she uses for her morning run.

She whips around and pulls her earphones out, flashing him a huge smile. "Hey Ollie, what's up? Did you tell Felicity? She feeling okay this morning? Not throwing up or anything, is she?"

Oliver gestures to the park bench nearby. "She's not throwing up, but I wouldn't say she's okay."

"There were copious amounts of that drug in her system. She probably feels _really_ sick this morning."

Oliver groans and buries his head in his hands. "You don't know the half of it," he mutters.

"Hey, what's wrong?" She sits down next to him, rubbing her hand on his back. "You okay?"

He stretches his index finger and thumb across his forehead to massage his temples. "I am the very definition of screwed, and I need you to do something for me."

"Anything, Ollie."

Oliver turns and locks eyes with Sara. "You can't tell Felicity I didn't have the drug in my system."

"Why…? What does it…?" Sara's eyes go wide as it hits her. "Ollie, you didn't!" she gasps.

"I didn't know I wasn't drugged! I thought I had no willpower," he argues, throwing his hands up. "She stripped in front of me, what was I supposed to do?"

Sara face palms. "She had the drug in her system!"

He gives her a frustrated look. "And I _thought_ I had it in mine," he grounds out in even beats.

Sara bites down on her lower lip, placing a hand over her mouth, her chin trembling. Oliver glares at her, recognizing the expression she's trying, unsuccessfully, to hide. "It's not funny, Sara."

Like a dam breaking, it's that statement that has Sara grabbing her stomach and doubling over in a fit of hysterical laugher. When she recovers, she runs her fingers underneath her eyes to wipe her tears. "I'm sorry," she says, sounding completely insincere. "I just…it's just…you thought you had no willpower because you _actually_ have. No. Willpower." And then she's off again, howling and snorting, slapping his knee.

"Sara," Oliver deadpans. "She can't know."

"That you have no willpower?"

He lets out a huff of exasperation. "Sara."

She turns her lips inward and nods, her index finger making a cross over her chest. "She won't find out from me," she assures him.

Oliver exhales in relief, patting her hand as he leans back. "Thanks."

She nods again, before bumping his shoulder with hers. "But Ollie," she interjects, turning sideways to look at him. "You can't hide behind a lie forever. Whatever happened…whatever keeps happening between you guys, you're going to have to face it sometime."

Oliver rakes a hand through his hair. "I'm not the one running from it this time," he says with a sigh.

* * *

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	3. Chapter 3

Felicity doesn't think it's fair that she now has two memories of Oliver saying he loves her, neither of which she can hold on to as truth.

"Sure the sex I can't remember, but _that_ is clear as day," she grumbles to herself, throwing her blue dress and lace underwear into her washing machine. She turns the knob that activates the sanitize cycle, a feature that's come in especially handy to wash the occasional blood splatter on her clothes, and—as luck would have it—the stigma of awkward one-night stands with her crime-fighting partner and best friend.

Okay, so it's more a figurative cleansing than an actual one for that second point.

She leans her weight against the now vibrating metal box, fingers tracing her mouth, as the memory dances into her mind. It's probably not a good idea to entertain any thoughts related to her and Oliver, but she can't help herself. She's never been great at not thinking about Oliver.

He's on top of her (and probably inside of her, she considers, her cheeks burning at the thought of that), but it's the look in his eyes that has her gripping the cold steel of the appliance behind her to steady herself. She remembers his eyes, staring into hers, bright and blue and earnest. She hates that she can feel his calloused fingertips grazing the skin on her cheeks, and that his voice is in her ear, soft and breathy.

"I love you, Felicity." She swallows and squeezes her eyes shut, because she can feel his lips on hers for a split second before his words echo in her ears again. _"I love you."_

"I hate _you_," she whimpers, burying her head in her hands, and she isn't sure if that's directed towards Oliver or herself or both.

But if she has to take a guess, it's directed at her and the damn things her brains chooses to hold on to, no matter how much she wishes she could forget.

* * *

"_OhmygodOliver!_" Felicity shrieks, pulling her bag up to her face to shield her from the sight of Oliver bare chest. He's standing behind a table, sweatpants hanging lower than usual, contributing to the illusion that he's completely nude. "Will you put something on?"

Oliver's eyebrows narrow in her direction as he opens his mouth to respond, ultimately deciding against it. He grabs the shirt that's resting on a nearby table and slips it on wordlessly, while Digg and Roy exchange baffled looks from opposite sides of the room.

"You okay, Felicity?" Digg asks, advancing towards her.

She nods quickly, eyes still glued on the ground as she makes her way to her desk, stumbling on the corner of the gurney on the way. "Me? I'm fine. Peachy," she assures him with a small smile, sinking into her chair and rolling it up to her desk. She flicks on her monitors and exhales. "I just think everyone here," she replies, her finger making circular motions in the air. "Should wear more clothes. All the time. New team rule." She swivels her around, facing Sara, Digg and Roy. "All in favor, say 'aye'." Her hand flies straight up as she yells, "Aye!"

Roy scoffs. "Uh-uh. No way. I'm not training with a shirt on." He folds his arms over his chest, scowling. "This does _not_ get my vote."

Digg rubs a hand against the back of his head. "I didn't realize our…lack of a dress code bothered you so much, Felicity," he says as his gaze falls to Oliver, who pretends to be examining the tips of his arrowheads.

"Never seemed to bother you before," Roy says with a click of his tongue, moving towards the training dummy. "Why the sudden push for modesty?"

Felicity coughs. There's a lump stuck in her throat, and she shifts under his curious glare. She doesn't have an acceptable answer ready, because "I slept with Oliver and now things are awkward" wasn't something she was particularly interested in sharing with the group.

"I'd be more comfortable if everyone wore more clothes," Sara pipes in, squeezing Felicity's shoulder. "I vote yes, everyone stays fully clothed down here."

"Yeah, sure," Oliver finally says, tipping his neck up slightly, before looking back down at his arrows. "Whatever Felicity—" He meets her eyes for a second before she turns back to her monitors. "And Sara want," he adds at the last minute.

"Dude!" Roy places both hands on top of his head and looks up at the ceiling with a groan. "You've got to be kidding me." A wave of understanding flashes on his face, and he places his hands on his hips as his eyes focus on Oliver. "Oh, I get it," he says slowly, finger darting from Sara to Oliver. "You guys are sleeping together again. That explains everything." He nods emphatically, a lopsided smirk on his face, completely oblivious to the crimson blush that's become Felicity's new skin color.

She covers her face with her hand and turns away, wanting to disappear from the room altogether. She knows it isn't fair to Sara, but she's grateful Roy assumed that instead of, well, _the other thing._

This is good, she tells herself. He doesn't know. It's a thought that helps settle her nerves, as she considers that she just dodged a bullet.

Until she meets John's eyes, looking straight at her. Through her, actually. Felicity freezes, because his mouth is slightly agape and he's looking from her to Oliver.

She cringes when his eyes meet hers, because he's throwing her a look that she understands immediately.

He _knows._


	4. Chapter 4

Felicity's life isn't usually predictable, but the parts that are have John Diggle in them, and she loves that.

The moment her doorbell rings, she knows exactly who to expect. It's why she answers the door by holding out a spoon, eyebrows ticked upwards. "We've been expecting you," she says, gesturing to two green-and-white cartons of ice cream sitting on her coffee table.

"Are you really cold, Felicity?" He asks with a baffled stare, pointing to her sweater. "You've been in that thing all day. How are you not burning up under there?"

She wraps her fingers over the delicate, flocculent material that covers her neck, and clears her throat, catching herself before she erupts into another babbling fit that's bound to trigger an awkward silence. "Believe me, I'd be burning up _up here_," she informs him, pursing her lips and facing a finger towards her face, waving it around ardently, "If anyone saw what's under there. Really, I'm wearing this to spare you, and everyone else, the sordid details of last night. Taking one for the team," she says with an impassive fist pump. She blows out a long breath, fighting off the familiar burn of humiliation that's become a looming presence since she first discovered the black-and-blue bruise marks Oliver left all over her neck (and breasts…and lower abdomen…and thighs, if she were to get _really_ specific).

Diggle tucks his lips inward and bites down, digging his hands into his pockets wordlessly.

Felicity folds her arms and glares at him. "It's not funny, John."

"I didn't say anything," he states innocently, holding his hands up in surrender.

"You didn't have to," she replies wryly, pushing a spoon into his chest before turning around and heading for her couch.

He chuckles and takes it, closing the door behind him as he follows her. With an exasperated sigh, she grabs the pint of ice cream and plops down on her sofa, yanking the lid off and tossing it to the coffee table in one fluid motion.

He stops by the side of the couch and jerks his chin at her. "You okay?"

A frustrated grunt escapes her lips as she points her own spoon towards her chest. "Me? I am proving, once again, that I have no willpower," she replies, scooping a mouthful of Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream into her mouth. She reaches out, sliding the second carton in Digg's direction. "It's eat-all-you-can night," she declares through a mouthful. "Help yourself. My freezer is well-stocked."

He narrows his eyes at her. "How much did you buy?"

Felicity stuffs an even larger serving of ice cream into her mouth before dropping her chin down slightly, throwing him a _what-do-you-think_ look. "I slept with Oliver while we were both drugged. My freezer is full," she confesses, licking her spoon clean. "I was planning to get drunk, but then I thought, 'do I really want another night of not remembering the choices I've made?'" Her palms come up, facing upwards, as she tips from side-to-side, imitating a balance scale. "No, no I do _not_," she spits out, releasing the last word through gritted teeth.

He smirks. "So he was that forgettable huh?" he jokes, settling into the space beside her, grabbing his own pint from the table.

She rolls her eyes. "It's_ not_ funny!" she repeats with more conviction.

He holds out his index finger and thumb half an inch apart. "A little funny," he remarks with a crinkle of his nose. "You can't remember sleeping with the illustrious playboy Oliver Queen, a guy who's got a pretty solid reputation in the bedroom."

Felicity looks at her teaspoon and considers switching it out for an actual ice-cream scoop. Clearly, she's going to need to eat more in a shorter amount of time if she has any chance of making herself physically sick. Preferably sick enough that the nausea caused by eating obscene amounts of dairy becomes the distraction she needs to replace the queasiness that's taken root in her stomach at the thought of Oliver sleeping with other women.

It's bad enough that she slept with him and it didn't mean anything. It's worse when she considers that she's just another notch on his bedpost now, the one cliché she never wanted to define them.

"I've never had a one-night stand," she concedes, unable to meet Diggle's eyes. "And of all the people to have one with…" Her voice trails off as she turns her attention back to trying to pile the maximum amount of ice cream on to her spoon.

It's comforting, this moment they share, sitting and eating quietly, before Diggle's voice breaks the silence. His tone is soft and sympathetic, inviting her to share more because he knows she needs to talk about it. Knows she'll keep it all in and cling to the guilt and the shame of what's happened between her and Oliver, questioning what she should have done differently, castigating herself for the choices she's made, completely oblivious to the fact that this was inevitable anyway.

Diggle knows that. Felicity doesn't.

"Must have been quite the morning after." It's a question wrapped in a statement.

"You've met Oliver, right? Broody. Serious. Not big on communication. Tends to walk away when you ask him a question he doesn't want to answer?" She bites her lower lip and bobs her shoulders up. "Awkward is the understatement of the year. One of the few times I've been grateful for his terseness. I told him we are never to speak of it again. He said, 'okay.'" She pulls her knees up, hugging them to her chest. "He was probably relieved I didn't go all clingy and—" She pauses, her fingers coming up to do air quotes, "'What does this mean for us?' on him."

Diggle nods once, curling a finger over his lip, resting his chin on his thumb. "So what does it mean, Felicity?"

"It means the next time we get hit with a no willpower drug, we stick with the group. No alone time. You are now forever responsible for making sure I go nowhere alone with Oliver. You are my designated do-not-sleep-with-Oliver friend," she says, poking a finger pointedly into his chest.

He throws her an amused look.

"What? If we assign drivers to prevent drunk driving, we should definitely be assigning people to keep us from making decisions that could potentially ruin friendships. Either way, we're preventing accidents. Potentially life-altering accidents."

_"Felicity."_ Digg releases her name tentatively, scratching the side of his nose. She rests her cheek on her knees, turning her head sideways and pouting at him. She can tell from his expression that he's weighing his words carefully. "We know how the drug works. It drains you of your willpower by lowering your inhibitions…but it doesn't make you do anything you haven't actually thought of doing."

"Okay, yeah. _Of course_ I've thought about sleeping with Oliver. I mean, he's always sweaty and shirtless and those abs…I'd have to be blind not to want to reach and out—"

Digg interrupts her with a hand on her knee. "You're not hearing me, Felicity. I know why you did it. But it takes two to tango, and he was there too." He holds her gaze for a few seconds, waiting for her to read between the lines.

"Oh," she says softly, before her brain actually puts the pieces together. _"Oh!"_ she repeats, much louder the second time around.

So Oliver's thought of—

It's in between a cough and a sob, the sound that she makes. "I need some water," she announces, springing up and marching into the kitchen. Her fingers grip the refrigerator door, yanking it open as she desperately grabs a chilled bottle of water from the top shelf, fumbling to undo the plastic cap. The flashback comes suddenly, and she staggers against the counter, setting the bottle down, as the images attack her consciousness. Her fingers fly up to her temples, pressing into them, as she tries to process the information.

The first flash is a blur, like subtitles flickering at the bottom of the screen, too fast for her to decipher. It's a memory of her dress, pooled at Oliver's feet, while she makes her way to the kitchen. She glances over her shoulder at him and comments on the heat. And then she's standing at the same exact spot, doing this exact same thing, handing Oliver a bottle of water.

But then she remembers his hands on her, the rough pads of his fingers gripping her waist, and it's as palpable as memories come. She can feel his erection through his jeans, pressing into her stomach, and it's cruel that almost twenty-four hours later, she's filled with the same desire that retroactively explains why she woke up next to him this morning. Her fingers trace the stubble on his check, and his lips part slightly as he advances towards her, finally folding over hers, before she gives his tongue entry into her mouth. It's fast and furious, and then her hands are undoing the buttons on his pants while he works on the clasp of her bra.

"Felicity?" She doesn't hear Digg approach, unaware of how close he is until he places a concerned hand on her arm. "You okay?" he asks.

She groans, bending over and leaning her head on the counter. "It was me, Digg. It was all me," she wails, weaving her fingers into her hair and grabbing fistfuls of it. "I stripped. I don't know what I was…I stripped, in front of Oliver."

It's torturous the details that come back. She can feel Oliver's teeth on her neck, sucking fervently, marking her repeatedly. His hands are cupping her breasts, rubbing a thumb over her nipples, before his lips decide to take over. Her head tips backwards when he hoists her up to the kitchen counter, her bare ass meeting the cold slab of the granite, as his hands slide underneath to bring her closer to him. She wraps her legs around him, moaning his name as he slips into her, holding his face between her hands and pressing her forehead into his, staring at those perfect, steel blue eyes as he sets a rhythm.

"This is not happening," she whines, leaning her forehead back down the counter, hugging her arms.

If things were awkward this morning, what would they be like the next time she saw him, now that she's confirmed what she's always suspected? That he's mind-numbingly good in bed? That the sex between them was good…no, scratch that. She remembers her orgasm. Twice. And his. Clearly, "good" to describe their night together is the understatement of the year.

Her knees can't hold her up, and when she opens her eyes again, she's leaning flush against her lower kitchen cabinets, sitting on the cold, tile floor.

Apparently, the only thing worse than not remembering the details of having slept with Oliver was remembering the details of having slept with Oliver.

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

"Roy, come on, _anything_?" Oliver slumps over the expansive metal table, gripping the edges and staring blankly at the pile of arrows before him. He doesn't notice that he's tapping his foot impatiently on the concrete floor until Sara throws him an annoyed look, one that has him drawing his leg back slowly, propping it up on the curved steel rod at the base of his stool instead. He sighs, rubbing his palms repeatedly on his leather pants.

Anxiety is coursing through him and he desperately needs to replace it with adrenalin. It's far from how he actually wants to spend his night, waiting for Roy to figure out how to pull up the police scanners so he can find himself a mission. A distraction. Anything that means he can focus on something other than Felicity.

Every muscle in his body aches to go to her, but he has to fight it, because he can still hear her words from the morning echo in his ears; still see the pained look in her eyes.

_"We can just pretend it never happened."_

This must be the penance for all his sins, he thinks bitterly, being the one between them who remembers every explicit detail and yet has no say in what it all means, or choice in where they go from here.

Roy whirls around and throws his arms up sideways, pointing both index fingers at himself. "Do I look like a blond IT genius to you?" he snaps, disgruntled. "The next time Felicity heads home early, we should all just call it a night. It's not like we can actually get anything done without her," he points out, facing the monitors just in time to see a large red window that says "Access Denied" flashing on the screen. It's a guttural grunt of frustration and then he's pounding on the keyboards with his fist. "Stop denying me—"

"Oh-kay!" Sara yells, grabbing his arm. A forced smile appears on her lips. "How about," she says, gently pulling him out of the seat, "you step away from there before you do any permanent damage to Felicity's babies…and, in the process, your credit score."

"My credit score's already crap," he points out with a shrug. "Not much she can do to ruin my life on that end."

She wrinkles her nose at him. "It's Felicity. She'd find a way."

"Well if she's going to ruin anyone's life, it should be his." Roy folds his arms, pressing his lips in a tight line as he jerks his head towards Oliver. "You guys all think I'm stupid. Like I can't figure out what's going on."

Oliver tenses while Sara shifts in her seat.

Holy crap, _how did he know?_

He waves his hand through the air, continuing. "And I'm not. Anyone with half a brain can see it," he says, tapping his forehead.

Sara turns around and tilts her head at him, feigning ignorance. "See what?"

He scoffs. "Do I really have to state the obvious?"

She fluffs her hair out and leans her cheek against her knuckles, batting her eyelashes at him._ "Apparently."_

She's good at this, Oliver thinks to himself. He narrows his eyes as he watches her, telling himself he needs to learn how to lie like that. Convincingly.

Roy rolls his eyes. "Well she's obviously dealing with issues related to you guys being back together," he says, shaking his head and throwing them both an incredulous, wide-eyed look. His hand lands flat on his chest. "Am I the only one who sees that?"

Sara balls her hand into a fist, bringing it up to her chin before biting down on the tip of her thumb. Oliver can see she's losing it. Her lips are shaking, but she clears her throat in a last ditch effort to regain composure.

"Yes," she says with a straight face. "I can _honestly_ say you are the _only _one who sees that."

Despite the circumstances, the corners of Oliver's lips tick upwards.

"I swear you guys are clueless," Roy mutters, picking up his bow to get some target practice.

"Thanks for playing along," Oliver mumbles, making his way behind Sara.

Sara grins. "You know…" she starts with a droll. "After Felicity's little outburst today and the way you've been looking at her with those sad puppy dog eyes, he's going to connect the dots." She throws a dispassionate glance Roy's way. "Eventually."

Oliver gives Sara a wry smile. "It's Roy," he says, putting his hands in his pocket as he looks towards the younger man. "Probably going to take awhile."

* * *

It's beyond annoying that the one time he's desperate to pull an all-nighter as the Arrow, the most serious crime Sara can pull up is a liquor store robbery.

(By a teenager. With a BB air gun. _For a six-pack of beer_.)

Where pride should exist, all Oliver feels is self-loathing for his efficiency as a crime fighter. The decline of illegal activity in Starling City is actually a source of frustration for him tonight.

Any other time, it would have made for a great story: Roy grabbing the kid by his hoodie, groaning when the kid pees on him at the sight of the Arrow and the Canary. "_Oh come on!_" he had grumbled, lifting his leg up and shaking it like a dog. "I love these boots!"

Sara doesn't bother trying to hold back her laughter for that.

But after, with only the hum of Felicity's computers resounding in the stillness of the lair, and the static that highlights the absence of crime on the police radios, it becomes clear that the Arrow is done for the night. It's time to shed his suit and switch personas. Only he has never hated being Oliver Queen more than he does right now.

It's the last place he wants to be, but the only destination he has left: home. Tonight, his apartment feels foreign and empty, because if the last twenty-four hours has taught him anything, it's that he doesn't belong here. He belongs with her.

His keys clang noisily against the ceramic surface of the bowl that sits by the front door, yanking his shoes off and letting them drop noisily against the marble tiles that line the floor. He collapses on the sofa, fingers digging into the creases, eager to find the remote control, desperate to fill the room with sound. In the deafening silence, he can only hear one thing: Felicity's voice.

Five minutes later, the remote control is still nowhere to be found, and he writes it off as just another point in the long litany of things gone wrong today.

"Don't do it Oliver," he thinks, commanding his eyes to stay open. He knows exactly what he'll see if he closes it, but willpower continues to fail him when it comes to thoughts of Felicity. And tonight, he's painfully aware of how relentlessly lonely he feels.

So he surrenders. Squeezes his eyes shut, leans back on the couch, places a hand on his head. In the darkness that he's created, he sees her clearly.

"Oliver."

The gasp sounds like a prayer on her lips. He's pulling her panties off, throwing them into oblivion (he now knows they land on her toaster oven) in between kisses, gently biting and sucking a trail of bruises down her neck. All that she says in response is his name, repeatedly, a chant, soft and steady and pleading.

"Oliver. Oliver. Oliver."

Her breathing quickens in his ear as his hands trace the surface of her thighs, sliding his fingers down to her bottom, kneading her ass before he lifts her up to the counter. "Felicity," he finally replies, teasing her with his hardness, the fabric of his boxers still between them as his hands move up to massage her breasts, catching her nipple with his mouth. He presses into her, and she responds, sliding herself closer to the edge to rub against him.

"You're a tease," she whines through heavy breaths, running her fingers up and down his chest. "God, you're even harder than I expected." He laughs because as dirty as that sounds, she's caressing his midsection, sighing appreciatively as her fingers trace the indents of his abs.

Trust Felicity to make a innuendo that's not as sexual as it sounds in the middle of an actual sexual experience.

She reaches to his sides, gripping his boxers, and biting her lip before pulling them down, effectively eliminating the last remaining barrier between them.

"Most women prefer more foreplay," he informs her, kicking off his underwear, as his fingers teasing her, flirting with her folds.

She swats his hand away with a scoff, grabbing his erection gently guiding him towards her entrance. "I'm good," she says simply, holding up the condom that he had retrieved from his wallet earlier.

Safe sex has never looked sexier, he thinks, looking down at her naked and willing, watching her tear it open, handing him the empty wrapper to throw away. She stretches the rubber over his erection, as he tosses the foil towards the trash can, watching it fall a few feet away from them, nowhere near his intended target.

Really, Felicity's water bottle got farther.

She frowns. "You missed."

Oliver gestures down to himself, hard and patiently awaiting entry. "I'm a little distracted, Felicity."

"Fair enough," she answers before pressing her lips back unto his. Her fingers grip his neck, moving up and raking through his hair, thumbs grazing his jaw. Her hands rest on his cheeks, staring into his eyes, blue on blue, as he guides himself into her. He loves that he can watch the expression on her face as she accepts him, the way her jaw twitches and her mouth parts, ever so slightly; the hitch in her breath, before she drops her eyes back to meet his, panting softly as he sets a pace. He watches her intently to make sure he's doing it right; giving her exactly what she wants.

Her legs wrap around him, eyes still glued to his, meeting him thrust for thrust. He expects her to be louder, the hushed tones she makes allow him to listen to her breathing; the jagged exhales telling him where she's heading and whether he's on the right path. Her thighs clench under his touch, and he spends some time stroking the sensitive skin there before moving his hands back to her ass, pulling her up until she's no longer resting on the counter.

He's so aroused, it takes a concentrated effort to hold off his orgasm. Because it isn't about him. It's about her.

He quickens the rhythm, pushing north, her throaty groans telling him this is exactly where he should be. When he slows down, it's only to push harder and deeper, moaning deeply when her grip on him tightens in response. As he builds momentum, her breath quickens, and he can tell from the way she's saying his name and digging her nails into his skin that her orgasm is building. It's only after she screams out, having found her release that he goes for his.

They lie together, afterwards, panting heavily.

"You shouldn't have hit Roy," she says sluggishly, sprawled on top of him on her kitchen floor. She rests her ear on his chest, her fingers walking around his chest, lightly tracing the raised edges of his scars. His heart is still pounding. It's proof of their first time together, his palpitations. Well, that and the clothes littering her kitchen floor...and her underwear draped over the appliances...and the empty condom wrapper.

He wraps one arm tighter around her, his thumb rubbing small circles on her shoulder. "He put you in danger," he answers. "More than enough reason for me."

"_I_ put me in danger," she mumbles, humming contentedly under his touch. "And you were worth it."

Oliver purses his lips and shakes his head. "No, I'm not, Felicity. I would have figured a way out, or Digg or Sara would have found me. You don't do that again, not for me." He means to use a harsher, firmer tone, but he can't manage anything more than a loud whisper, too content to pretend to be angry or upset; too distracted by the feel of her bare skin, smooth and supple against his, legs draped over his thighs…

She laughs. "I think you proved tonight that you were definitely worth it," she purrs, leaning her cheek against her hand and propping her elbow up on his chest, looking down at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She crinkles her nose. "You have, after all, just given me the best sex of my life." Her finger traces an invisible line up his chest, over his neck, before stopping at his mouth. His lips part slightly to suck on the tip of her finger, gentle and sensuous, reminding her that his mouth is very talented.

He runs his fingers through her hair. "That wasn't the best sex of your life," he tells her, his tone matter-of-fact, with an expression both cocky and smug.

She narrows her eyes at him. "It wasn't?" she asks coyly, fighting a smile.

He shakes his head, before a grin covers half his face. His arms come up under her back and knees, lifting her up in one motion, laughing when she squeals. She wraps her arms around his neck, pressing a kiss unto his temple.

"Bedroom?" she asks with that adorable head tilt.

He nods. "Bedroom." He leans in and kisses her again, before announcing confidently, ""_This_ is going to be the best sex of your life."

Eyes still shut, the sigh he releases is thunderous against the silence of the room. He knows he should be trying to forget, not holding on to every detail of their time together. But it's more than just what he remembers, _it's what he doesn't._

He doesn't remember the nightmares that line the edges of his consciousness, that keep him treading the line between a restful sleep and a fitful one; doesn't remember waking up in panic several times a night as the experiences that left physical scars come back to haunt him; doesn't remember the threats the voices of the dead scream in his ear. In those few hours, his reality is changed with a glimpse of what life with her would be like. It's the warmth of her head underneath his arm, the lilac scent of her hair, and way she drapes her arms around his chest, fingers reaching up to rub the stubble on his cheek. It's her voice in his ear, a lullaby both calm and melodious, that weaves dreams to replace his nightmares.

This is the moment that makes him believe in a future beyond the battleground, bright and peaceful and happy. It's a thousand tiny pixels, details he doesn't want to forget (and can't, even if he tries), that form the image of Felicity.


End file.
